forty-four

Nathan overheard the pathologist calling out to Danny: rejected love. He rocked and concentrated on his throbbing toe, the way the pain radiated up his foot with the same pulse as his heartbeat, making his head ache and his teeth chatter. The last time he’d seen Annie, he’d stumbled in out of the rain, flinching against the glare of the outdoor lights. Annie had appeared in the doorway like a waxen effigy, her skin pale and tight over her face. “I’m glad it’s you, but you gave me a startle like to scare the bejesus out of me. It might be good if you forewarned me next time.”

She had beckoned him into the house without stepping backward. She let him brush against her and grabbed him in a fierce hello hug. “Frightful messes, the two of us,” she’d said and let him go.

She took one look at his toe and pronounced him fit for a doctor. “You’ll lose the nail. Do you sleepwalk?”

“I’m not sure. Zoe might know.”

“But night terrors for sure.”

It wasn’t a question so Nathan didn’t respond. Lately the terrors had worsened with a vengeance.

Annie helped him along the passage to her front room. Two sofas sat at right angles to each other in front of a fireplace. Wall shelves laden with books rose to the ceiling. The vase he’d given her sat on a side table in front of a picture window. “I’ll tape the toe to its neighbor but that’s not a long-term solution. Promise me you’ll go to a doctor.”

“I promise.” He spied a spiral-bound notebook opened to a page filled with writing. “I interrupted you.”

“Just my journal.” She tucked the journal into an antique escritoire.

He’d never have guessed her for a scribbler in the dark of night. Scribbling his thoughts had always felt dangerous, as if consigning his nightmares to paper rendered them more real. At the behest of his therapist in the psychiatric hospital, he’d tried, only to feel more paranoia than relief.

He asked her when she returned with bandages, “Do you find journaling helpful?”

She cut a length of bandage. The security lights that he’d triggered were still on and they shone through the window. Their harsh light made the grey in her hair glow. “I do. Writing helps me process my thoughts.”

She’d fixed him tea then, and they’d sat for a while in the dark when the security lights clicked off. Now, back in their glare, he thought about her journal. She’d probably processed a few thoughts about him. It would be odd if she hadn’t, given his erratic behavior. A knot tightened in his stomach. He tried to tell himself that it made no bother what she’d written about him. It was none of his bloody business.

But it bothered him. He saw the way people reacted to him, with impatience, with wariness, with fear as if he were contagious. However, Annie had seen past his teetering surface to his core, a core that he knew could be as solid as one of his fired vases. He longed to feel that strength, to know what she saw in him. Annie’s insights would reveal the truth about himself; reading her journal would be his own personal firing process. He wanted that journal.

Nathan forced himself to loosen his grip on the wall when Danny returned and sat down next to him. “How are you?” he said.

“I can’t feel my feet.”

“You’re in shock, I expect. Can you show me the text message you received?”

That was easy enough. Please come. Hurry.

“Annie’s in your contacts list, I see,” Danny said. “You knew to come here when you read her text?”

“Seemed logical.”

“When you arrived, what did you do?”

“The bouquet made me uneasy, and her indoor lights were off even though her car is here. I checked.” He pointed to a detached garage with windows. “I rang the bell for five minutes straight. After that, I called the guards.”

“You didn’t go inside?”

“No.” Nathan shifted, wincing. “Am I free to leave now?”

“Hold tight,” Danny said. “Not long now.”

He excused himself again, and Nathan hoped to Christ that would be the last of it. He didn’t want to have to lie again. His vision was already blurred around the edges. He was in for a bad night made worse because, although he’d searched, he hadn’t found Annie’s journal in the escritoire. Or in the office desk. Or in the night table.

She lived alone. She wouldn’t hide the journal under a floorboard. She’d store it someplace easy. All he wanted was a piece of her to keep for himself, to help himself, but someone had gotten to the journal ahead of him.

Nathan averted his gaze from the desiccated bouquet. His teeth chattered. Yes, tonight was going to be horrific.